Chapter 544: News Out Of Spain
Izan pushed the door open with his shoulder, bag slung over one arm, hoodie halfway peeled off.
The flat slled faintly of oil—Olivia had definitely been cooking before she left.
He dropped his bag.
He toed his shoes off and stretched his neck once.
Then he noticed the small brown parcel on the counter, right next to a sticky note with sharp, familiar handwriting.
“Told you I’d get this sorted the mont you turned seventeen.
Now try not to crash anything. — M.”
He blinked once, then opened it.
Inside: his provisional driver’s license.
Neat, official, kind of underwhelming in how plain it looked.
But it was real.
His na, his face, and his age.
Seventeen.
The number looked strange printed on sothing legal.
He leaned back against the counter, and turned the card in his hand, thumb rubbing along the edge.
Seventeen.
A bit early but he could finally drive.
Could finally go where he wanted.
He took out his phone and texted Miranda.
Izan:
Got the license. Thanks for sorting that.
Also, I’ve been thinking about uni and what you said about it. It would be hard to juggle it with your suggestion so I will take a gap year so we will sort things out.
A few seconds passed.
Then three dots.
Miranda:
Took you long enough to say it out loud.
Good call. One thing at a ti.
He smiled.
Then another ping.
Miranda:
Also—I’ve got sothing for you.
You’ll see soon.
He rolled his eyes and replied:
Izan:
You’re so dramatic.
Miranda:
And you’re welco.
He set the license down beside the note and flipped it once more.
Then he grabbed a bottle of water, collapsed onto the couch, and exhaled long into the empty room.
….
The rain had stopped an hour before kickoff, but the pitch at the Emirates still shimred under the floodlights—slick, fast, perfect for the kind of football Arteta liked to see.
Arsenal versus West Ham.
And the mood? Business.
West Ham ca in with intent.
Not to park the bus, but to disrupt.
Julien Lopetgui knew better than to give Arsenal the luxury of rhythm.
He lined his midfield with muscle and made sure every run between the lines got t with a body.
But Arsenal were patient.
From the mont the whistle blew, it was clear: this wasn’t about chaos.
It was about control.
The ball moved through red shirts like water, calmly redirected at every touch.
Timber’s early touches on the right were clean and sharp.
Calafiori stepped high on the left, stretching space.
And in the middle, the ball kept finding its way to Izan.
He didn’t rush it.
In the 8th minute, he dropped into a pocket, back to goal, then rolled it perfectly into Ødegaard’s stride.
The captain flicked it forward without hesitation—into the path of Saka, who ghosted behind Erson and lashed a shot toward the near post but Fabianski got his fingertips to it sending the ball out of play for a goalkick.
“Early signs of intent,” Joseph Marlin noted from the booth.
“Arsenal aren’t waiting to be invited into this match. They are slowly seeping into the ga.”
West Ham cleared the corner, but not convincingly.
Rice intercepted the loose ball and played a sharp pass into Izan.
He shaped to shoot but instead cushioned the ball sideways with his instep, slipping it past the edge of the box where Martinelli was already peeling off his marker.
Martinelli didn’t think twice.
A quick step.
A powerful strike.
1–0.
The crowd rose, not in surprise, but in affirmation.
That’s what they’d co to see.
West Ham tried to respond.
They pushed higher, tried to close down lanes, and forced Timber and Calafiori to play quicker.
That was fine.
It gave Arsenal sothing to work with.
Because when the space opened—just a sliver—Izan punished them.
In the 33rd, Ødegaard slid a pass to Saka who paused, turned, and reversed it square across the edge of the penalty area.
Izan t it with his right foot.
No wind-up.
No dramatics.
Just contact.
Clean. Rising. Away from the keeper.
2–0.
“He makes it look far too easy,” ca the low comntary from Joseph.
“That finish, that movent—it’s cold-blooded.”
Before the half ended, West Ham had their mont.
A long diagonal found Bowen in stride.
His touch was heavy, but he managed a half-shot through Calafiori’s legs.
Raya got low and pushed it out but the follow-up from Mohamd Kudus.
That was their warning shot.
It never ca again and soon, the second half ca.
No changes.
Arsenal didn’t look for more—they let the ga invite them.
In the 53rd, Izan drew three n wide.
He kept the ball glued to his boots and danced out of a tight pocket before rolling a sharp pass to Jorginho, who clipped it across to Martinelli again.
This ti, the shot was blocked, but the tone was set.
By the hour mark, West Ham’s midfield was fraying.
And Arsenal?
They weren’t sprinting.
They were walking them to the edge.
In the 67th minute, it broke.
Izan drifted inside from the left, picked up a loose ball near midfield, and let it roll ahead of him.
Souček approached but Izan dipped his shoulder, paused, and then sent a no-look pass through the center channel.
The run was already made.
Ødegaard burst through, shaped to shoot—but squared it instead.
Saka arrived like thunder.
3–0.
And finally, the fans rose.
Not for the goal.
But for the football.
“It’s the chemistry, it’s good and it’s the new Arsenal. That’s what’s special here. Not the scoreline. Not just the finish. It’s how they move together.”
After the goal, Izan slowed down.
Not out of fatigue—just intelligence.
He started playing simpler, drifting wide, linking with Timber, recycling with Calafiori.
And in the 80th, Arteta raised a hand.
The board went up.
Number 10.
Izan turned, already jogging off before the whistle even sounded.
A clap on the back.
A smirk from Saka as he passed him.
As he reached the touchline, Arteta clasped his shoulder and offered him a little nudge.
Job done.
The final ten minutes were formalities.
West Ham didn’t have enough left to threaten and Arsenal didn’t need anything more to prove.
When the whistle blew, there wasn’t a roar—there was an exhale.
The ga had never really been in question.
Not when the midfield ticked like that.
Not when the number 10 in red played with that kind of balance between cruelty and calm.
Another page turned and another step forward.
…….
A few hours later, an interview aired just after midnight in Spain—one of those polished, soft-lit specials broadcast on Fútbol Mundial, the kind of show that always felt half-docuntary, half-confessional.
The cara didn’t open with dramatic music or montage—just a slow pan across the set to where Florentino Pérez sat comfortably in a tailored navy suit, hands folded, eyes steady beneath the studio lights.
Opposite him, Javier Morales leaned forward slightly, holding a card he hadn’t looked at in several minutes.
They’d already spoken about the Champions League, about the rebuild, about Mbappé and the usual orbit of nas.
But now Javier paused as if stepping off the script.
“Señor Pérez,” he said carefully, “you’ve had the privilege of signing so of the best in football history with the most recent being Mbappe. But today—right now—if you could sign any player in the world, no matter the difficulty… who would it be?”
Florentino gave a faint smile, the kind that ca before saying sothing he already knew would be quoted.
“Izan,” he said simply.
Morales blinked, letting the na hang in the air a second longer than necessary.
” Arsenal Talisman?”
Pérez nodded, the smile still playing at the corner of his mouth.
“Is there another Izan. If there is then I don’t know He’s special. Elegant, but with steel. He plays as if he sees the whole ga a second ahead of everyone else. There’s sothing… inevitable about him. He reminds of the legends—not just for what he does now, but what he’ll beco.”
The host let him talk, sensing sothing more was coming.
“We watched him,” Pérez continued, slower now.
“Early. At Valencia, and even before he signed for Arsenal. We knew. But at the start of this season, there were decisions to be made, and we didn’t move fast enough. We thought we had ti and we were also a bit complacent.”
He paused.
Not out of hesitation, but weight.
“I regret that.”
Javier didn’t rush to speak.
“But now, he’s under contract,” Pérez added with a shrug, “and Arsenal won’t let him go easily. Nor should they. He’s theirs now. For the mont.”
The cara caught his gaze drifting slightly, not at Javier, but past him, like he was watching a version of the future he didn’t quite own.
“Would you still want to sign him?” the host asked.
Florentino didn’t hesitate. “If the opportunity ca, yes. Without question.”
There was no sensationalism in his voice—just sothing more dangerous.
Conviction.
And across Spain—and soon the footballing world—the clip began to circulate.
The club that had waited too long was now watching with interest again.
A/n: Hello guys. Sorry for the privilege tier thing. It should be fixed in a few hours after I release another chapter.
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